was not one mention of the shooting on Highland Avenue that took Wesleyâs life and maimed her, but several minutes were devoted to Amanda Pierceâs murder, even some footage from a press conference held by the police commissioner with a line of grim-faced men and women standing behind him who Dana figured must be connected to the case.
For the life of her, Dana couldnât figure out why this one womanâs death should garner so much attention. For the most part, sheâd profiled celebrities, though she probably had some muscle with the local politicians, as well. As the reports told it, she used her fame to fundraise for the Democratic Party. Still, all the hoopla seemed like overkill.
Or maybe it was the classic case of white chick ventures into the âhood and gets killed or raped or breaks a fingernail and then the world rallies around to make sure the guilty are punished.
The commissioner shifted, revealing one of the men behind him: Jonathan Stone, the âbabyâ of Joannaâs family. Joanna had told her he was working homicide now. The last time sheâd seen him in the flesh had been a year ago at the familyâs Fourth of July barbecue in Joannaâs back yard. As usual, heâd stood off to the side, distant and silent.
For a moment, she could have sworn sheâd caught him staring at her. Unlike most men in that situation heâd kept on staring. Sheâd stared right back at him as a sort of challengeâuntil Joannaâs youngest had come up to him, startling him. Heâd obviously been lost in thought, not paying any attention to her at all.
That was fine, since she wouldnât have welcomed his attention in the first place. Her ideal man didnât suffer from a death wish and was slightly more communicative than the average brick wall.
The doorbell rang, pulling her from her musings. She only hoped it wasnât Joanna, who, fed up with talking to a machine, had decided to check out her welfare in person.
She crossed the living room and walked the short distance down the hallway. She walked to the door but didnât bother looking through the peephole. It had long since clouded over and sheâd been loath to pay for a new one since she didnât get many visitors to begin with. âWho is it?â she asked.
âItâs Jonathan Stone.â
A mixture of surprise and alarm ran through her on hearing his voice. She pulled open the door, regretting her decision not to answer any of her friendâs calls. âIs Joanna all right?â
He looked surprised at her question, the most emotion sheâd ever seen on his face. âAs far as I know, sheâs fine.â
Now it was her turn to be puzzled. âThen why are you here?â
âIâd like to speak with you about what you saw Friday morning in connection with the Amanda Pierce case.â
Her eyes narrowed as she considered him. âI thought those calls were confidential.â
âMay I come in?â
Annoyed that her confidence had been broken and the fact he neither confirmed nor denied that it shouldnât have been, she said, âAre you sure you donât want to rifle through my trash cans first? Or maybe you prefer some other way of invading my privacy.â
âItâs not like that, Dana.â
That was exactly what she hated about copsâthey thought their ends justified any means. She didnât know how the police had figured out she had called in, and it didnât really matter. It would never occur to them to leave someone alone if they thought it would help their case.
She huffed out a breath. He was here already and he was her best friendâs brother. She might as well answer his questions and be done with it. It could be worse. She could have Moretti questioning her, but this time sheâd bet the case would get more than a cursory investigation.
âCome on in,â she said, âbut I doubt I can tell you